Minefield
by BlueRoseRabbit
Summary: Set during The Hounds Of Baskerville- because, really, seeing a mine blow up a man isn't the best thing for an army doctor with a bit of PTSD, is it? - - - In which John has a flashback, Sherlock is not a doctor or a therapist, and Lestrade is a bit slow. One shot.


_Something that could've happened during The Hounds Of Baskerville. They cut away from the scene a bit early, don't you think?_

* * *

Sherlock ran. He could hear the crashing footsteps of his three companions (well, two companions and Henry Knight) around and behind him, but he was mostly focused on Dr. Frankland, whom he was determined to catch.

"It's no use, Frankland!" Sherlock yells.

Dr. Frankland runs toward the wire fence ahead. Sherlock hears Lestrade telling Henry to keep up, but it barely registers because _why is there a wire fence there?!_

The reason is made perfectly clear soon enough. Frankland only makes it a few paces before he stops running. Sherlock and the rest continue in their persuit. Frankland looks down, than looks up again. One of their flashlight beams passes over Frankland's face briefly, which allows Sherlock a glimpse of an emotion [resignation].

Then Frankland's lifts his foot and there's an explosion that is incredibly loud and lights up the night. Sherlock skids to a halt, as do the others.

If he'd had a mirror, he would've seen that a vague expression of shock and horror was on his face. Sherlock Holmes had never seen a man blown up before, and neither had Henry Knight or Greg Lestrade. In a corner of his mind somewhere there was a faint remark of "Well, at least the man died and there weren't any limbs flying around," but Sherlock was ignoring that part. He turned around.

Henry knight had leaned up against a tree and had a shocked expression on his face. Lestrade looked a bit horrified. John was on the other side of Sherlock, so Sherlock couldn't see his face, but John was John; jumper-loving, tea-drinking, no-cigarettes-for-Sherlock, soothing and kind John. He'd be fine. Sherlock was more (_but_ _not_ _that_ _much_, he reassured himself) concerned about the sanity of Henry Knight and Lestrade.

"Are you alright?" He strode over to Henry, who allowed Sherlock to look him over. Henry nodded a hesitant affirmative. He blinked a couple times and looked away from Sherlock; probably trying to hold back tears. Sherlock moved to Lestrade.

"How are you?" He asks Lestrade, grabbing his head and looking into his eyes briefly. Sherlock's own eyes roam over Lestrade looking for any signs of injury. There were none.

"Sherlock, let go, I'm fi- John!" Lestrade suddenly fixated his gaze on one short sandy blonde.

Sherlock spun around to see John stumble forward towards the minefield. His right leg seemed to be locked up a little. Sherlock ran to him and grabbed him by the forearms.

"John, that's a minefield, what are you-?!"

"Let me go, she's still alive!" John protested in a choked voice. "She's screaming, Jesus, she's not dead, oh god, _she was just a little girl-_" and John Watson struggled to push past Sherlock, but he groaned when his left arm pushed against Sherlock's body.

_talking about little girls right leg locked up (psychosomatic) mine just went off in minefield groaned left arm hurts (bullet wound) at an army base today army doctor Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers nightmares rarely but traumatized by (my) experiment PTSD flashback_

It only took Sherlock a second or two to get a grasp of the situation and to snatch the gun out of John's hands and throw it at Lestrade, who dodged it at first, and then reached down and picked it up out of the grass. Sherlock also let go of John. It was never a good idea to be seen as a threat when you were with someone having a flashback, and Sherlock was fairly certain that restraining someone could seem threatening.

"Breathe, John, in through the nose, out through the mouth, damnit I think that's what you do _you're the doctor not me_! You're on the moor. Near Baskerville. Look at me, John, look at me, focus!"

"Sherlock, what's going on?!" Lestrade rushed over anxiously. John flinched at the sudden movement and Sherlock mentally scolded Lestrade for being so stupid. He decided to do it verbally, too.

"Stupid, as usual, Lestrade, John is having a flashback." Sherlock's eyes never left John's trembling form. John tried to bolt past Sherlock into the minefield and Sherlock launched himself in the doctor's path. John stumbled backwards and fell because of his leg. Sherlock slowly crouched down to get at John's level. Looking down on John may be seen as threatening.

"A what?!"

"From post-traumatic stress disorder, Lestrade, haven't you heard of it? A mine just exploded. John was in Afghanistan. Really, make some connections! John, there is no girl. There is no one there. You are in Dartmoor." Sherlock knelt and reached a tentative hand out to John, who was visibly making some sort of effort to return to reality. Sherlock could tell.

Lestrade swore at the "revelation". John flinched.

"Not helping," Sherlock commented. Lestrade muttered an apology and backed away.

"She's screaming," John murmured.

"There's no screaming. No one is there. On the moor in Dartmoor there is John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, and Henry Knight. No one else. Breathe, John." Sherlock tried to make his voice as calm as possible. Lestrade had thankfully shut up.

John breathed.

John blinked.

John breathed.

John closed his eyes.

John breathed.

John opened his eyes.

"_Sherlock_," John said, and the relief and anxiety was very, very prominent in his voice. Sherlock flashed a quick smile.

"Welcome back, John."

* * *

"What the bloody hell was that then?!" Lestrade paced in front of Sherlock anxiously. Henry Knight was at his own home, probably sleeping. John was sleeping in Sherlock and John's room. Sherlock was currently sitting on an armchair in Lestrade's room. They had decided to stay the night in the hotel/bed and breakfast place.

"Why did you text me in the middle of the night to come to your room so you could ask me stupid questions?" Sherlock asked, though he didn't really expect an answer.

"John Watson, tea-loving, jumper-wearing John Watson, just had a bloody flashback to Afghanistan! Am I the only one concerned about this?! And that gun he's carrying is probably illegal!" Lestrade swore.

"It's a military gun, Lestrade. He probably snuck it home. He _was_ in the army. A captain. A doctor. He's seen mines go off and kill people before." Sherlock's voice was monotone.

"And apparently he's seen mines _not_ kill people, too. Little girls. Jesus. Shouldn't he have a therapist?!" Lestrade's voice was growing more concerned.

"He did have a therapist. He stopped seeing her. Don't worry so much, Lestrade, this is the first flashback he's had while conscious since he's met me. He's recovering. He's fine. John Watson has nerves of steel." Sherlock wished he had a violin to play. He was certain that John would be having nightmares. Nightmares were growing rarer and rarer for John since he moved into 221B; he'd had them every night for the first week, and then they'd slowly started going away. Sherlock made certain that he played violin when John had nightmares. The music helped John calm down.

"Nerves of steel." Lestrade frowned. "Where have I heard that phrase before?"

"How should I know? It's a common phrase, Lestrade." Sherlock lay his head back on the armchair. He was so bored.

"Oh, god, A Study In Pink. John Watson shot the cabbie, didn't he? Bloody hell. Christ." Lestrade swore some more. Sherlock looked up at him sharply with astonishment. Lestrade noticed.

"I'm not as stupid as you think I am, Sherlock. Even if I'm a little slow on the uptake. When you described to me what the shooter was like, you described a man who was a war veteran, someone who had moral codes and nerves of steel, and is a good shot. You then told me to forget everything you said and you went to talk to John Watson about the rent. John Watson: a war veteran who is a great shot, has moral codes and has a gun. And nerves of steel, according to you. Shock talking, my arse. Bloody hell." Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"Considering that John has saved my life and yours tonight by shooting the dog when you missed, I do believe that you owe him the favor of not arresting him," Sherlock pointed out. Lestrade swore again.

"Fine. Damnit, Sherlock," Lestrade sighed, "just be careful, alright? I don't want to come to your flat one day and find a bullet in your chest because your flatmate got scared by memories he does have a right to be scared of."

"What? Fine, fine. I'll be fine." Sherlock stuttered. Lestrade was caring. That was nice, he supposed. The whole "people caring about your well-being" thing was nice. He only got that from John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and occasionally Mycroft (though Sherlock wasn't really sure if that was because Mycroft cared or because Mycroft liked keeping tabs on people).

John did, in fact, have nightmares that night, of a little girl running through a poppy field in Afghanistan and stepping on a mine. Her screams haunted him constantly. Thank goodness Sherlock could hum a good tune, and music helped John a little even if it wasn't the violin.


End file.
